Batman 5 - Batman Begins by Dennis O'Neil Page A

As they moved toward Bruce, they brandished daggers and short swords.
    “Wait!” someone commanded. The armed men stopped and became as still as stone.
    Ducard stepped around a pillar. Bruce reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the blue poppy. He held it out, his hand shaking.
    Rā’s al Ghūl spoke in what Bruce thought was Urdu. Ducard translated: “What are you seeking?”
    Bruce’s lips were numb and he found it difficult to answer. “I . . . I seek . . . the means to fight injustice. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful.”
    Ducard moved to stand in front of Bruce, and took the flower.
    Rā’s al Ghūl spoke again, and again Ducard translated: “To manipulate the fears of others you must first master your own.” Ducard placed the poppy in a buttonhole and asked Bruce, “Are you ready to begin?”
    Bruce felt himself trembling with fatigue. “I . . . I can barely . . .”
    Ducard kicked him and Bruce fell to the floor.
    Fists on hips, Ducard looked down at him and said, “Death does not wait for you to be ready.”
    Gasping, Bruce struggled to his feet and Ducard punched him in the ribs. Bruce staggered backward.
    “Death is not considerate, or fair,” Ducard said. “And make no mistake—here, you face death.”
    Ducard pivoted 340 degrees and aimed a kick at Bruce’s neck. But Bruce raised his right forearm and blocked Ducard’s foot. Ducard smiled.
    Bruce put his left leg forward and shifted his weight onto his left, and put his flattened, crossed hands at chest height: a martial arts stance he had learned aboard ship. He forced himself to remember everything else he had learned on the ship, and in all the dark alleys and filthy bars where he had fought, and won, and been defeated. Ducard attacked and Bruce responded: punches, kicks, blocks, jabs, chops—a smooth flurry of continual motion.
    Ducard said, “You are remarkably skilled. But this is not a dance.”
    Ducard smashed the top of his head into Bruce’s face and immediately kneed him in the groin, driving his flat palm up into Bruce’s chin. Bruce fell backward and tried to rise, but could not.
    Ducard crouched over Bruce. “And you are afraid. But I sense that you do not fear me. ” Ducard pulled the blue poppy from his buttonhole and dropped it onto Bruce’s chest. He put his lips close to Bruce’s ear. “Tell us, Wayne . . . what do you fear?”
    And Bruce remembered: screeching hats exploding from the crevice and tearing at him . . .
    FROM THE JOURNALS OF RĀ’S AL GHŪL
I feel like Michelangelo must have felt when he found the block of marble that became his David. Thus far, Bruce Wayne has not disappointed me. He may be the raw material of my masterpiece. Evolution has been kind to him. He is of huge mental capacity with an intelligence quotient I believe to be among the highest ever recorded and an eidetic memory. Everything that he sees or hears he can recall with total accuracy and he is able to absorb new information of any kind with speed. He is also a splendid physical specimen with what appears to be an optimum balance between fast and slow muscle fibers, a large lung capacity, unimpeded circulation of blood, a responsive nervous system, and excellent proportions, so much so that the artists of ancient Greece might well have used him as a model for the statues of idealized humans they were fond of creating. Bruce Wayne is still ignorant and cannot access all that nature has given him, but those are conditions that I can remedy.

CHAPTER SIX

    T he following morning, Ducard and Bruce, now wearing cold-weather gear, stood on the balcony of the monastery. The sun glared on a vast sheet of ice, a glacier that lay below them. Bruce had just finished telling Ducard the details of his parents’ deaths. He was silent for perhaps ten minutes, enjoying the cold, clear air flowing into his body, and the sight of the hard blue sky above them.
    Ducard broke the silence by asking Bruce a question. “Do you still